


Red Mourning Sun

by WatercolorConstellations



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, au where dracula had friends, random mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatercolorConstellations/pseuds/WatercolorConstellations
Summary: A ghost in his own home, Alucard doesn't know what to do with himself until more of the secrets his father had kept come to light; and they're not pretty.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Red Mourning Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo the end of that second season got me real good a long time ago, and i finally got around to writing myself a better ending. This might end up having more parts? but i'm an incredibly inconsistent writer so just take my fluffy friendship and leave
> 
> please i am just a humble dork with lots of clumsily edited ideas

It had only been a few days since the world had stopped ending. Within the castle walls time itself had seemed to pause, breath caught in the melted cogs which lined the walls. Adrian Tepes flitted through the halls, paler than usual and pursued by the echoes of his mother’s laughter. Each hall he slunk through reeked of emptiness, dust and blood covering the mildew that stained the corners of what had been his home. 

He couldn’t feel anything as long as he wandered the halls, aimlessly reliving mundane moments from his childhood in a daze. The film over his thoughts seemed to only give way to wrenching sobs, and to these only when he stopped moving; so, he stumbled up and down stairs, turning down pathways he hadn’t remembered. The castle itself felt like a dream, indistinct and easy to get lost in, which didn’t make any sense since he had long ago memorized each curve of its walls. 

It was the third day since Sypha and Trevor had left in the wagon, trusting him to take care of this place in their absence; but he wasn’t quite there either. His arms lay leaden at his sides, and though the stink of coppery blood and scorched metal singed the back of his throat when he neared the areas damaged in their battle, he couldn’t find it within himself to change it. His eyes were glazed as he listened to his own childish giggling disappearing around the next curve. 

When he finally came back to himself, he was standing in his mother’s favorite library, one hand trailing through the dust that coated her research journals. As the barest edge of his fingertips grazed each of the books’ spines, he idly cast a glance over the shelves around him. His eyes shuttered over something, and though for a moment he couldn’t pinpoint what had caused him pause, he noticed a thinner strip of dust. A couple shelves beyond his mother’s medical research, there was a series of books regarding the anatomy of “supernatural” creatures. The dust in front of them was smudged through with lighter streaks of dust, as if someone had pulled the books our recently. 

The bolt of curiosity he felt at the sight was the most positive he had felt in days, and he reached with tired hands to pull the books down. As he removed each of them, he looked through each, but none of them held anything pertaining to any of the creatures which had been in the night hordes, instead all of the books regarded exotic and extraordinarily rare appearances of specific species. Puzzlement twisted his thin features as he looked at the books again, and then felt carefully across the smooth paneling of the bookshelf. One of his nails caught on a blemish, snagging for a moment before he tugged it free with a minute click, and the shelf began to give. 

Scrambling back in apprehension, he regained his balance before he pressed a cautious palm to the surface of the wood and a good portion of the structure swung inwards silently. The hallway beyond had been lit with the automatic torches, but now that they were disabled it lay dark and silent, with the stale smell of campfire smoke. Gilded eyes adjusting to the gloom, he padded down the hall, and then down a twisting corridor of stairs which seemed to have been designed to weave between the preexisting hallways. As he made his way deeper into the hidden passage he became aware of a sound just barely there on the edge of his perception. 

Faintly, so quietly he half thought he was imagining it, something slammed into a wall, then paused before another dull thud sounded. His eyes narrowed and twitched at the thought of a threat remaining within his castle. His hands, trembling faintly with exhaustion and tension, hovered at the hilt of his sword at the ready. 

Each step he took, ears straining forward, he could hear the strange noise clearer. Now mostly convinced that this wasn’t another production of his imagination he attempted to puzzle out what it could be. It grew, not to the point where the sound where it was loud, but rather to where it was clear and he was standing before an unmarked door deep in the bowels of a vampire’s castle. The door itself filled him with apprehension, padlocked and warded to contain power and radiating heat enough to be felt where he stood. 

The smoky smell had grown as he walked until his eyes and throat burned and watered in the heavy air. As he contemplated the door, muffled shuffling replaced the faint sounds until he heard a hoarse and distraught sound. 

“Fuck.” A cracked voice whispered to itself. 

Suddenly frantic at the infinitely more concerning idea of his father keeping people prisoner in the castle Adrian pried at the lock on the door. To his shock the lock came apart in his fingers, crumbling to ash and smearing across the handle of the door in smatterings of fingerprints. Yanking the door open with more force than strictly necessary, his eyes widened at the sight of the cell’s contents. 

The cell itself was almost disturbing in its luxury, a transparent attempt to conceal the fact that this was a prison draped in bright silks and plush furniture. As he looked again, he could see that everything from the enormous bed to the pinned tapestries on the ceiling had been scorched in at least one places, burn marks marring every decadent frosting on the bleak and cold cell. The walls themselves were a disturbing antithesis to the contents, writhing and twisting knots of pipes insulating the room in a nest like chaos. The bowels of the castle hadn’t been designed to accommodate for this cell, instead the tiny space had been shoved into the very machinery as another pocket of secretive machinations. 

Huddled in a cramped defensive position on the other side of the cell, in a corner with arms outstretched to catch a blow crouched a young woman. The thick smell of blood filled his nose as he looked at her and he noticed that though her cell was one that could’ve belonged to royalty, she was chained by her neck to the wall, two extra chains sprouting from her collar to bind her arms close so that they couldn’t extend fully. The shackles that bound her didn’t seem natural, sealed without hinge or lock in a thick strip of metal that rubbed the skin underneath raw and red. Each chain and strip of metal was engraved with symbols which looked vaguely familiar and sinister. 

Bile rose in his throat as he took in the ragged and torn skin around each manacle and the dents in the wall above the bed. She looked half feral, starved and angry, the distrust and betrayal in her eyes cutting straight through him. 

He sank to the ground, despair clogging his throat again as his eyes desperately tried not to well up with exhausted tears. He didn’t understand why his father would do this, and the confusion on his face and the vulnerability in his sagging posture must’ve alerted the woman to the wrongness of the situation as she crept two steps closer to his crouched figure. 

He couldn’t tell how long he sat there, thoughts swirling around in his head as he tried to make sense of the secrets that had obviously been kept from him in his own home. Somehow, between blinks, the woman had crept forward enough to sink to the balls of her feet a few paces away, head tilted in curiosity, though her mouth was pinched and distrustful. 

Raising his head from where it had rested on his chest, Adrian extended one arm towards her in a soft gesture. Flashing grey eyes narrowed at him, as if expecting an attack, darting between his outstretched fingers and the long blade at his side. Carefully, he took hold of the hilt, only to hastily let go as her lips drew away from her teeth in a snarl. Instead, he reached for his belt, fumbling one handed to unbuckle the straps and cast the whole bundle away from himself. As the sword slid away from them across the plated floor her shoulders relaxed minutely. 

Licking her cracked lips, she whispered, so soft her could barely hear it even in the stifling stillness of the cell, “Alucard?” 

Stunned, he blinked for a moment, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. 

At his confusion, her dulled eyes crinkled in amusement, before her face thinned again, “Where is Dracula?” she murmured. 

“Dead;” he responded automatically, blankly registering her shock, “dead by my own hand.” 

Startlingly, her face crumpled in sorrow at the news, “I am sorry Adrian, he was a good man when I knew him.” 

“You…knew my father? Then why are you in this place?” 

“The same reason I had heard you had been sent away I suppose, when he…lost himself, I attempted to speak to him, then to stop his advances, it didn’t end very kindly for either of us.” She slowly drifted closer as she spoke, still barely over a whisper with the harsh rasp of someone dehydrated and exhausted. 

“Why keep you here?” he muttered, half to himself. 

In response she pushed her bound hands toward him, revealing the wires and tubes which wove in and out of her chains, disappearing into her skin under strained red marks. The tubes were only barely transparent, something startlingly red drifting sluggishly through them. The vivid scarlet didn’t match any blood he had ever seen, instead resembling the faintly glowing coals of a dying hearth. At the end of each tube her skin was raised and irritated, torn and ravaged by similar marks that encircled each wrist. 

Confused and repulsed by the cruelty, his face twisted in uncomprehending horror. Seeing he didn’t understand, she nervously licked her lips again, “He knew adding my power to the mechanics of the castle would give him an advantage, it hasn’t been taking nearly as much the past few days though, it’s how I figured something was wrong.” 

“He’s been draining your-” 

“Life force, yes. Or magic if you prefer but I don’t think that’s quite an apt description.” 

Automatically, he reached for her again, and this time she carefully held herself still, watching him intensely as she allowed him to gently grasp her hand. Suddenly, she sniffled sadly, offering him a trembling smile as he froze to make sure he hadn’t done something wrong. 

“Who are you?” he asked, bluntly staring into her eyes again. 

Theatrically she grinned at him, all sharp teeth and false bravado, “Why I’m the phoenix of course Adrian Tepes, Circe Elena at your service.” 

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asked, head tilting backward to examine her again. 

In response she only hummed quizzically at him. 

“Keep calling me Adrian I mean.” 

“It’s your name is it not?” she asked, not getting his point. 

“You called me Alucard at first, it’s what most people know me as.” He explained quietly. 

For a moment she stayed silent, chewing at her battered lips before carefully answering, “To me, Alucard is more title than name, it’s a description for you, serving as your father’s foil. Now that he has… passed on, it seemed more fitting to use your given name, but I can stop if you wish.” 

“I- no it’s…nice.” 

She smiled softly at him again, allowing her body to sag against the chair behind her, head tilting to lean against the bright upholstery as her legs sprawled out in front of her. Her dark curls were harshly defined by the bright fabric, drawing his attention back to the tired pain drawing lines across her face. 

“Oh!” he breathed, shaking himself jerkily, “you- can I try to-” instead of continuing whatever rambling sentence he had been going to spit out he gestured back and forth between her arms and the sword still laying in the corner opposite them. 

She nodded vaguely; her eyes glazed over with a final layer of absence. Her hands lay limp in her lap, loose but for the chain around her neck. The position she had landed in looked profoundly uncomfortable; one leg folded behind her while the other stretched out in the opposite direction. 

Moving slowly as to not startle her, he slid toward his sword, holding it delicately as he moved toward the length of chain and wire tethering her to the wall. Deftly strengthening his grip, he swung the blade toward the links of the chain, the resounding crash reverberating through his arm. She flinched subtly at the noise, but the sword had done its job, the two halves of the chain neatly laid beside where the tip of the blade was buried in the floor. Red pooled in the center of the mark, spilling from both ends of the broken tubing as he turned back to her, gesturing towards her arms again. 

Silently she toppled to one side, muscles coiled tight and tense as she extended her arms as far as possible, displaying the chains for him to cut. He could hear her breath trembling and her hands shook as he raised his arm again. This time when he struck the metal the sound was harsher, but less startling, both sets of woven chains splayed on the floor in front of her, neatly divided in half. The floor again oozed with a pool of scarlet, as if the castle itself was bleeding. Softly, he set the sword down behind him, looking into her eyes again. 

“Circe?” he asked quietly, “can you get up?” 

Her eyes were huge and dark as they snapped to his, muscles bunching under her skin as she pushed herself into a sitting position and then lurching into a vaguely upright position on her feet. She was still leaning against the chair heavily, so he asked for her permission before wrapping one arm around her waist as she draped one of her own around his shoulders. 

To his surprise, once she was standing at nearly full height, she was nearly as tall as he was, her chin just barely grazing his shoulder as she swayed for a moment. She radiated soft heat into his side, but much colder than she should’ve been if she really was the phoenix. As close as she was it was easy to see the pallor of her dark skin, the dirt and knots matting her curls to her neck. Jerkily they started forward, gradually settling into a pattern that let them make their way down the hall. 

Her weight grew heavier on the stairs as she tried not to stumble, hand clutching his coat in a death grip. When Adrian glanced to the side to check on her, he was surprised to see her grey eyes shining with a faint yellow tinge. One of her sharp teeth poked over her lip, biting into it with the effort she took in each step. He wondered to himself who exactly she was, this Circe Elena who he found in the depths of a haunted castle. 

It took him a second to register that she was looking back at him, but when he did, he startled a bit. She smirked at him, giggling for a moment before it turned into a brief cough. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she stuck her tongue out and grumbled, “What do you have for food in this damned castle anyway?” 

By the time the two of them reached the main kitchen of the castle, Circe was barely conscious, all but carried by Adrian to the table in the center of the room. He gently lowered her into a chair, wincing as the chains hanging off of her clanked against the table. She groaned angrily and let her head fall into the crook of her arm on the table, flinching a bit as the movement caused her pain. 

Adrian paused for a moment before reaching for a mug to fill with water, placing it in front of Circe with a quiet thud. She didn’t seem to be watching him anymore, but thick droplets of red marked their path into the room. 

Frustratedly pushing his hair back, Adrian swept out of the room in search of medical supplies and something to get the thick manacles off of her arms and neck. The best stocked workroom was barely a floor away, but even so it took him several moments to find the tools he needed. 

When he reached the kitchen again, he announced his presence by calling her name ahead, receiving only a low snort of acknowledgement for the effort. She had turned her head so her cheek was mashed into her elbow, looking up at him with half lidded eyes. Her other arm reached out to curl around the mug in front of her, which was only half full at this point. Hauling herself up she looked pointedly at the tools in his arms, sighing as she flung her right arm in his direction, sipping slowly from the mug. 

He smoothly set everything down, some of the metal clattering against the wood. He looked at her to check her reaction as he hefted a pair of enormous bolt cutters in his hands, to his surprise her eyes crinkled in amusement over the top of her mug again, even as her fingers twitched nervously. 

She forced herself still and stiff as he wedged the edges against the cold metal around her arm. He tried his best to keep the weight off her bruised skin as he levered it shut, knowing he hadn’t quite succeeded when she squeaked in discomfort. He cursed himself for it as he took hold of each side of the break, checking with her until she nodded for him to pry the metal apart. It was slow going, the metal was thick and he was doing his best to spare her discomfort, but she seemed to appreciate the cautiousness, chattering to him softly about mundane things as he worked. 

She sat perfectly still as he removed the second manacle around her wrist, but shut her eyes and sat absolutely silent and still as he worked on the collar, barely even breathing as she leaned into him while he pried at it. 

Finally, once all the remaining bits of her bindings had been gathered up out of the way on the table, she began to talk again, voice smoother and steadier as she drank from another mug of water. He was focused on gently tending the abused skin where the metal had chafed, gently chastising her for taking the disinfectant and pouring it over everything in one go to “get it over with.” 

“I knew your father for a long time you know,” she drawled, “it was years and years ago when we met, I crashed through one of his windows with a broken wing, shot down by a bunch of hunters. He thought I was just a bird, imagine his surprise when the next morning there was a kid in his castle, perched at the top of the staircase.” 

“If you met him when you were a child, how have I never met you?” 

“Uh- well, you understand how this castle is not quite anchored to this plane of existence in the same way as other places? How it travels from one place to another?” 

“I suppose.” 

“Well I am quite similar, though I am slightly more alive than it is. You see, the phoenix can’t die, not exactly; I might disappear for decades or even centuries, there was even a memorable occasion where I existed twofold, but in the end I come back. Always as someone new, but the same as well. I am Circe Elena but also Bast Afolayan and Eurwen Sayer, all at once and all separate. I remember their lives and I can do as they did, but I come with my own preferences and ideas, I am new where they are old and all of the poetic things that make me myself.” 

“Hm, doesn’t sound exactly practical but I understand what you’re saying.” He hummed, wryly looking at her crooked smile. 

“Hey!” she pouted at the jab, fingers twitching in his grip as she tried not to gesture with her hands, “Don’t you dare preach to me about what makes sense magically, you’re a dhampir, you don’t make any sense.” 

He looked affronted but went back to what he was working on, listening to her babbling with the good-natured silence of someone who hadn’t listened to anything but their own thoughts in days. In return she rambled on about whatever memories flitted to mind, eventually settling on those of flying. “My goodness,” she sighed, “I don’t think I miss even sunlight as much as I do flying.” 

“Are your wings damaged?” he frowned, worry ghosting over his face for the barest of moments. 

She seemed to brighten reassuringly at the concern, “Oh not at all!” she chirped, “I put them away a while ago to keep them safe and I’m just too tired to bring them out right now, though I suppose that I’m going to need to take care of them pretty soon.” 

The only sign of discomfort and confusion was the way his hands paused for a fraction of a second, “Do they need special care?” 

“You have no idea,” she groaned, letting her head rock back until her neck twinged, “have you ever seen a full-grown person try to take a dust bath without ruining their hair forever?” 

He snorted at her obvious dismay, “Your hair?” he asked as he wound bandages around each wrist. As he tucked the tail end of each away, he glared at the ring of abused skin around her throat, fingers fiddling around her hands as he hummed frustratedly to himself. 

Noticing the direction of his gaze a laugh bubbled up in her throat at his frustration, and she carefully swept her tangled curls away from her neck, casting around for a leftover ribbon of cloth to tie it back. Still giggling softly at him she teased, “I’m not going to be upset with you for helping me you know? It’s not like I can see what I need to do here, I don’t know anything about healing.” 

He looks uncertain but still reaches out, deftly messing with different products to gently tend to the weeping tears in cracked skin, his long fingers soothing the stinging pain that darts through her neck. She wrinkles her nose at the smell of the herbs, fidgeting in place as he works. It only takes a few moments for him to finish wrapping the area, but she’s already beginning to sag once again. When he releases his grip on the bandages, she slumps sideways into his shoulder with a wide yawn. 

He smirks at her smugly, “Tired?” 

Through another jaw cracking yawn, she murmurs back, “A bit, but I’m kind of hungry too.” 

“That can be solved when you can hold up your own weight.” He chides as he hoists her up again, draping one of her arms around his own shoulder in support. He has no idea whether any of the bedrooms in the castle are in hospitable shape, after all he hadn’t been sleeping much. Taking a guess, he gently guides her towards one of the more isolated wings, one which hadn’t been touched by the destruction of any of the several battles, instead only threatened by neglect. 

By the time they reach the halfway point her breath rasps heavily in her chest and he’s half carrying her, feet dragging arrhythmically along the thick carpets. After a few more hallways he turns into an alcove and pushes open a half-hidden heavy oak door carved with a thick swirling pattern around the edges. 

The room beyond is dusty, but untouched, heavily embroidered cream curtains drawn back from the windows in a show of subtle elegance. Stumbling into the room, he leads her to sink into the comforter of the bed. This guest room, unused as far as he can know, is entirely furnished in shades of cream and gold, soft light spilling through the windows, which would show the imposing figure of two towers ascending on either side of the room. Between the two sets of floor length windows there is an empty chest of drawers and an ornately framed mirror. 

The sight of this reminds him of the state of her clothing, so after he pulls her worn boots off her feet and wraps her in the heavy blankets he wanders off once again, this time to find something for her to wear, and something for her to eat. 

He can’t bear to disturb his mother’s wardrobe, so instead he makes his way to his own old room. He ignores everything else as he strides jerkily past the discolored patch of floor, instead rifling through his own belongings for a change of clothes. His hands shake as he pulls the stack of clothing from the others, and he leaves as quickly as possible. His heart pounds in his throat and memories flash before his eyes as he trembles, grief clutching at the back of his mind. 

Mentally steeling himself again, his steps lighten near the guest room, opening the door with a quiet click so that he can set the small bundle on the bedside table. In her sleep she stirs and mumbles something, one hand cradling her face as she murmurs nonsense. She’s bundled into the covers so tightly only her face is visible. 

Turning from her bedside, he treads slowly towards the kitchen again, standing stiffly in the doorway as he attempts to gather himself. The image of his mother standing in front of the hearth glazes over the back of his eyes, tears stinging his throat. He shakes his head and listlessly proceeds to rummage through the cupboards for something to eat. There is very little left, Dracula’s forces hadn’t needed to eat after all; instead he resorted to whatever preserved foods were left in dusty corners. He wanted to make something to help her heal, which was surprising in itself, but the only idea which struck his fancy was the heavy stew his mother had made for him during the colder months of his childhood. 

Unfortunately, that meant he would need to find meat to add, and he didn’t know these forests very well; he hadn’t been outside since- well, he couldn’t exactly say. Resolving to do what he could, he swept through the main hall to stand in the shadow of the castle, afternoon light and breezes that smelt of cold sunlight and faintly growing things contrasting horribly with the pale stillness of the castle. 

He trudged through the forest reluctantly, aimlessly wandering through the trees, his footsteps noiseless against the muddy ground. Adrian listened to the sound of the world around him, following meandering tracks made by different kinds of animals absentmindedly, lost in thought as he hunted. 

Phoenix sightings were notoriously few and far between, spanning years and cultures, and though most descriptions of them seemed consistent, it had been years since his father had allowed him to study anything about mythological creatures, instead insisting that he focus on tangible sciences. This didn’t make any sense since his father had known the phoenix personally. He wondered absently how her wings would work, she had said that she could use them while still humanoid after all. 

He found himself standing outside the castle again much later, stars high in the sky and a brace of rabbits hanging from one arm. His head hurts, it’s dark and beginning to get chillier. Instead of moving with his usual grace he simply dragged himself back to the kitchen from before, bones aching with exhaustion he began to attempt to construct something halfway edible from memory alone. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had started cooking, instead he had just been absentmindedly tending to the pot of stew he had prepared on the cookstove. The light outside had changed from a fading afternoon haze to the first streaks of dawn, but he couldn’t remember most of the night. He stands in front of the window above the cookstove, staring into the forest, mind wheeling with memories and remnants of what his life used to be. 

All at once, the existential hopelessness and guilt of outliving his entire family hits him again, and he is brought to his knees by the sheer despair that he can’t help but allow to take over his mind. 

He sits listlessly on the ground, eyes glassy and dull with tears. Why had he deserved this? Was it his fault that his father had lost himself after his mother’s death? Was he not enough to hold his father to sanity? Oh god he had killed his father, oh god he killed his father and it was his fault. It was his fault, his fault that his family was gone. Alucard had killed Dracula, and he had killed his father and it was his fault. 

He didn’t- couldn’t notice as his breath began to come in gasps, tears streaming quietly down his cheeks. Out of habit his heaving sobs came with no noise, vision unfocused and dim as he stared wide eyed at his own guilt. He didn’t notice the footsteps approaching either, shuffling though they were. Adrian trembled from head to toe, curled tightly into himself on the kitchen floor, head absently leaned against the wall and face empty of expression. If he had been present enough to see it, he would have noticed Circe pale at the sight of his figure, rushing to take the burning soup off the stove before she knelt in front of him. 

She hovered in front of him, her cheeks still sleep rosy but eyes wide and blue with worry. Her hand hovered halfway between the both of them as she spoke, “Adrian?” she murmured calmly, “Adrian can you hear me?” 

He couldn’t quite understand the words, hearing them as if underwater, muffled and jumbled sounds burbling from her lips. Trying again she shuffled the tiniest margin closer, “Do you hear me?” she asked softly, “If you can hear me, please try to copy my breathing.” She took a loud and deep breath, the sound deep and measured, ringing in his ears until he began to match it. 

Every so often she would check again to see if he could understand or respond. As his harsh rasping panting began to smooth, she looked into his eyes, her face open and blatantly concerned, without a hint of pity or mocking disdain. She simply looked sad, hands still open and palm up in front of her. The air around him no longer felt as if it was thick and rough, instead it was warm and soft, tired and melting. Finally, his eyes met her own, his bloodshot and gold rimmed in red; hers were wide and cloudless blue, filled with naked attention. 

As he began to calm, she spoke again, hesitantly, “Adrian? May I touch you?” 

Though he still couldn’t speak he inclined his head the slightest bit, and she gently slid across the stone to his side, with the barest touches wrapping one arm around him. She drew him to her side carefully, as if he were made of ice. Unlike earlier, she radiated heat, holding onto himself with a steadiness that anchored him to the present. The warmth from her arm seeped through his shirt into his back, each of her fingers latched onto his other arm with a soft and strong grip. 

He leaned into her, bonelessly accepting the comfort. She still smelled of smoke and sunshine, bright and wild and familiar. It took a while for him to gather himself again, the both of them propped against the wall and each other as the kitchen shadows lengthened. She simply stayed beside him, not speaking but never drawing away, simply lending herself to providing an equilibrium. 

When he finally took a deep breath and shifted against her side, she turned to look at him again, eyes soft and questioning. He sighed again, “I’m fine.” He muttered into her shoulder. 

She raised one eyebrow but simply nodded, following close when he stood up. She gently held his arm as she guided him to sit in one of the chairs at the table before she paced towards the cupboards in search of something. He watched quietly, elegantly slumped in one chair as she began to putter around with a kettle and two mugs. 

He noticed that she was moving differently than earlier, where she had moved jerkily and unpredictably, now she held a kind of sinewy grace. In the scant hours since he had left her asleep in the guest room, she had recovered enough to move with an ease she hadn’t possessed before. Despite the fact that she was still unkempt and injured, she seemed to glow with a new energy she hadn’t had before. 

As if she had noticed his gaze through the back of her head, she called softly over her shoulder, “Adrian?” she asked. 

“Hmpfh?” he hummed absently. 

“Do any of the baths in the castle still function?” 

“Dunno” he muttered, distracted, “probably, just wouldn’t count on any hot water.” 

Instead of the disappointment he expected, she simply tossed a bright grin over one shoulder, “Perfect!” she exclaimed. 

Shifting from where she had been standing in front of the cookstove, she balanced an assortment of dishes along her arms. Carefully she set a bowl and a teacup in front of him, huffing amusedly as he simply stared blankly at it, setting across from him with her own cup and bowl. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what to do with it?” she laughed. 

“I mean- I just, you know I’m a vampire, right?” he asked, incredulous at the gesture. 

Wrinkling her nose, she replied, mouth half-full of soup, “Hate to break it to you, but you’re only half vampire, plus, have you seen how skinny you are?” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

She huffed, rolling her eyes, “You’re not getting any blood far as I can see, and I’m not in any shape to give you any, so you’re gonna have to suck it up and eat non-people food for a couple days.” 

Instead of the defensiveness she expected, his lips curled in incredulous disdain, “You can’t tell that just by looking at someone,” he sneered, “I’m fine.” 

“You’re not.” She murmured this, shoulders slumping as she looked at him with huge sad blue eyes, “You don’t have to be, and neither am I, but I’m not leaving and I hope we can both be ok someday.” 

He just looked at her, his face completely blanked of emotion as he studied her sincerity, before he finally nodded abruptly. His lips had thinned into a sharp line and he looked conflicted, but he finally leaned forward to take hold of the spoon she had slid across the table, reluctantly taking a bite of the soup. She smiled lopsidedly at him as he looked away, hair hanging in his face as he ate. 

She narrowed her eyes as she peered up at him through her lashes as she finished her own meal. His hair was dull, tangled and greasy, the color of dust. His clothes were wrinkled, and she had seen the clean ones that he had left out for her, so it made little sense why h wouldn’t have changed. All in all, he looked like a man who had given up, and she wasn’t going to allow that to happen; after all, she knew what it was to let yourself die, and shuddered at the memory. 

Blinking into the present, she noticed him staring back at her, face questioning her own vacantness, shaking off the creeping grief she had always associated with those particular memories, she heaved herself up enthusiastically, sweeping the empty dishes into her arms deftly and dumping them into the empty sink with a loud clattering. 

Clapping her hands together, she spun on one heel, “Right!” she declared, “Now, where did you say the baths were?” 

With a put-upon sigh he slowly levered himself up and gestured for her to follow, scowling at her chirpy bouncing next to him. “Why?” he grumbled irritably. 

“Do you know how long it’s been since I felt clean?” she retorted. 

In response he only scoffed, striding quickly across the floor. The castle was enormous, intimidating, and the arrangement of rooms wasn’t in any recognizable pattern. All the same, Circe spun and scampered across each hall, looking wide eyed at the architecture interwoven with the mechanical veins that powered all of the castle’s miracles. Adrian watched her as she ran dizzying circles around him, stepping out of the way so she wouldn’t go careening into him while she examined the structure of the building. He marveled at the amount of energy she had, but buried the admiration under a heaping amount of indifference to her childish antics. Her eyes were wide and bright as she tried to take everything in, tracing over the pipes she could reach with delicate fingertips and frowning at the shadowed corners where the mechanical lights no longer glowed. 

“You know,” she drawled as she glided along next to him finally, “your father was teaching me how these things worked ages ago; must have been nearly a decade?” 

“Is that so?” 

She hummed brightly, following as he turned into another room. Her jaw dropped as she took in the cavernous space, all faded mosaic and untouched tile columns. She had been in roman bathhouses before, and this room had obviously been modeled after one, the swirling blue and white patterns trailing in ceramic over each wall and the ceiling. The pool itself was still full and clear, the water undisturbed. She knelt nearby and stuck one grubby hand in, hissing at the cold of the bath. 

She turned to see Adrian rummaging through a few cabinets tucked away in the far corner of the room. She waved off whatever he was doing, instead opting to slouch on one of the benches against the wall and yank roughly at her battered shoes. Dropping both boots to the ground in a dirty heap and bounced up on the balls of her feet, before hastily shoving her shredded tunic over her head, shaking her pants off to join the pile and leaving her in just her underclothes. 

Adrian let out a startled squeak like a mouse being tread upon and she swiveled to face him. His face flamed bright red and he fumbled with the jars he was holding, juggling them awkwardly for a moment. Tilting her head, she laughed at him, to which his face twisted into a scowl as she clutched at her stomach. “Do I offend your delicate sensibilities your grace?” she mocked, and with this he seemed to regain his footing; skirting around her to stand at the edge of the bath. 

“Wait there for a moment!” she exclaimed, “I’ll have the temperature problem fixed in a moment.” Waving an absent arm at the lip of the enormous basin she gently waded into the cold water, shuddering at the temperature for a moment before she relaxed and her skin began to heat anew. As she reached the center of the bath, she let herself sink backwards to float on the surface of the water, taking deep calm breaths as the heat from her limbs leeched into the water surrounding her. She let it go readily, ramping up her body heat even farther than she would usually maintain until the water around her had begun to gently steam, and she could see Adrian beginning to skittishly settle into his own area of the pool. 

Suddenly enthusiastic, she popped to her feet, startling him enough for his eyes to widen. “May I take my wings out?” she asked breathlessly, shifting from one foot to the other in anticipation. 

He looked confused for a moment, “Of course?” he said, sounding uncertain, “You don’t need my permission.” 

Grinning happily, she stretched to her full height, twisting her arms above and behind her and rolling her shoulders. As she tensed, she pushed her shoulder blades out as far as they could go, and in the span of a fraction of a second, dusty feathers were spilling from her back, trailing down through the water in huge arcs. 

He gasped at the sight, forgetting to keep his distance as he stepped closer to one of them. She playfully stretched one wing to meet him, sodden feathers brushing along his arm gently. Both of her wings were caked in dirt, and cramped from being folded away for so long, if the way she would only extend them halfway was any indication. Her wings fluttered, sending little shockwaves outwards as she began to scrub her fingers through the dense plumage. Occasionally they would flip unexpectedly, dousing both Adrian and Circe with a shower of rapidly dirtying water, loosened scraps of fluff shedding from the downy underlayers. 

The layer of debris began to sluice away under her fingertips, the feathers turning red brown and yellow and cream under her fingertips. Hesitantly, he ran his own slim fingers over the edge of her wing. He huffed in surprise as she absently shoved at him with the same wing, and buried his fingers more securely into it. He had the presence of mind to carry with him one of the jars filled to the brim with a sweet-smelling soap, and the two of them passed it back and forth to work down each appendage. 

Together they worked through each wing until their fingers were numb, and retreated to separate edges of the bath again. She swiped the near empty jar from him as she went, batting at the water with clumsy strokes from her freshly rinsed wings. 

Circe scrubbed at her scalp with vigor and was soon hoisting herself out of the tub, heavy wings pulled tight against her back as she shook herself from head to toe. Dripping, she padded across the floor, her body heat drying the droplets scattered over her as she walked. Her eyes caught on Adrian, sequestered in his own corner of the bath house with the other half of the grooming products he had scrounged. 

His hands were buried in his hair, tugging at the tangled mess over his eyes with white knuckled fingers. Moving carefully, she lowered herself until she was next to him. She draped both wings over the edge of the tub, splaying them out on the floor to dry on their own. 

Movements made tentative by concern, she untangled his hands from his hair, pushing at his shoulders until he was practically resting his head in her lap. Murmuring softly, she covered his eyes with a hand as she poured water over his hair. He relaxed minutely as she gently untangled his hair, smoothing it as she rubbed expensive smelling products through it. 

By the time she was finished, his hair floated around him in a halo of liquid gold, perfectly smooth satin between her fingers. He allowed her closeness for a few moments more before his eyes lazily blinked open to stare up at her. The moment he caught sight of the undisguised happiness in her eyes he startled, pulling away inhumanly fast. 

Before he could turn to see her, she huffed indignantly at his skittishness, clumsily rolling over the edge of the bath to sprawl on the tile floor. For a moment she just lay there, allowing a moment for her body heat to spike in a fashion that was sure to get rid of whatever droplets clung to her frame. Rising to her feet she shook out her wings one last time, buffeting the air with the newly cleaned feathers. 

Now dry, they were still unkempt but glowed with copper tones and pale spots of white. Her wings burned and shifted as she moved, streaks of bright red bleeding through cracks of inky black feathers and highlighted in sparks of bone white and bronze. Each wing was edged in gold at the very end, Circe herself was well aware of their hypnotic beauty; which, while it made her wary of attention, made her preen with pride in the right light. 

When her wings were out and in use, it was rare for them to be freshly cleaned, instead they would be stained with soot from her various monster hunting or mysterious tinkerings. Sweeping her wings in to rest tightly against her shoulders, she snatches the bundle of her filthy clothes off the ground, turning to discover that Adrian had already left while she was preoccupied with testing her wings. 

Snorting in an undignified manner, she strolls back through the castle, relying on her memory of the corridors to strut in her underclothes past several open doors to where the rooms he had allowed her are. 

The clothes she had disregarded that morning are still there and she contemplates them for several minutes before shimmying into the trousers he had left. They fit, albeit oddly on her, and she settles herself cross-legged in the center of the bedspread, which has already been abused with the dirt caked to her skin the night before. 

One of her wings remain firmly clasped to her shoulder, but the other enormous limb twists so that it blankets her lap with feathers. Deft fingers dance through her plumage, pulling at the feathers that have been twisted out of place until they lie straight and soothing the splits in each one with careful fingers section by section until her feathers gleam sleekly the way they should. 

Doing even one wing takes ages and with her meticulous approach it must be a good long while before she can hear the soft rasping of supernatural footsteps on plush carpeting in the hall. Blowing another inconvenient curl out of her face she calls to him to come in, still kneading her fingertips over the fine boned joints of her wing. 

He spends a few moments shuffling around just past the doorway before he drifts in, gaze cast to the window rather than look at her. Humming at the gesture for her modesty, she wrestles one of the blankets off the bed to wrap around herself like a toga, leaving both wings free. After several minutes of her odd shuffling, he finally glances over at her. 

Before he can apologize for running away from her earlier, she waves her sore hands at the expanse of feathers before her, “Do you wanna help?” she asks hopefully. 

His eyes soften a bit looking at her curled into the bedspread, and he hooks one foot around a stool next to the washbasin, settling at her side to comb through the finer feathers clustered at her shoulder. 

With his help the second wing goes much faster than the first, and by the time that midday sun grazes the windowsill, she is standing to stretch the tension out of her limbs. She tests them with a gentle fluttering, giggling as Adrian hops gracelessly backward to avoid being smacked in the face with her multicolored plumage. 

Ignoring the cramping in her hands, she gathers the mounds of dislodged down and soiled sheets into a bundle, scooping it into her arms. “Where should I dispose of this?” she sighs, yawning as she shifts from foot to foot. 

“I’ll take care of it, just wait here a moment,” he soothes, “I’ll be right back.” 

She lets him tug the blanket from around her shoulders, turning as he leaves to move into the puddle of sunlight growing on the floor. She tips her face into the light, shoulders slumping a bit as she relaxes. When she casts an eye around the room, the fainting couch in the corner catches her attention. 

Dragging the heavy piece of furniture over to the sunbeam, she flops down on the cushions, her wings draped back and across the floor as she finally lets her eyes close. The warmth on her skin soothed her racing thoughts and she sighed lightly as she dropped off to sleep. 

When Adrian returned, he snorted to see her sprawled haphazardly across the couch, face buried in her hands and snoring softly. The room itself is cast in a thousand pinpoints of dancing light where the sun reflects off of her metallic feathers. He’s quiet as he changes the sheets, quiet as he leaves, he doesn’t notice one blue eye crack open and a faint smile. 

The next few weeks turned almost immediately to a flurry of activity as Circe discovered the state of the entry hall and the emptiness of the pantry. The first day she flung open the empty cupboards with an indignant huff and a raised eyebrow, and began to stock them again. 

She sent Adrian into town for supplies on market days, concealing himself as a traveler so he could buy as many supplies as the wagon they had found could carry. She began work on the castle as he did this, keeping him occupied with tasks centered away from the remnants of violence in his home while she tore up carpets and moved rubble. 

She was relentless, day after day passing as she built and rebuilt, shoring up the walls of the Belmont hold one moment, then flitting to fixing the pipes that carried water to one of the bathrooms closest to her bed. Everyday she worked for hours, and he worked alongside her, both of them collapsing with aching muscles at the end of the day but peace in their eyes. 

Occasionally he had to remind her to stop, lending her a hand where he could, but for the most part leaving her to her own designs of architecture. She was deceptively strong, and slowly the castle began to be visibly different for her efforts. 

She had been outraged at the barren landscape which surrounded the castle, landscape razed and pitted with the ruin following its appearance and the destruction of the Belmont estate before that. She spent days shoring the library against cold and damp, covering the opening in the earth with ramshackle constructions as she began work on a rambling tunnel directing the entrance of the keep into the bowels of the castle. 

Thick sturdy walls made from rubble encircled the castle as she cleared away the debris from the tragedy of the grounds. The castle itself seemed to change shape and color; its usual ominous shadow softened by the merry presence of the two of them working together. She repaired walls and altered peaks, shifting the structure from a cursed ruin to something new. 

He discovered her love of living things as she slowly but surely draped the castle in every kind of vibrant wildlife she could find, with his help designing spaces for exotic plants to one day stand, greenhouses and conservatories of glass appearing interwoven with the laboratories his parents had built. 

Everywhere she went she filled rooms with light, adding windows where he said she could and otherwise creating enormous chandeliers of glass and mechanics which stained everything with a persistently soft yellow glow. The décor changed as well, air no longer still and silent with the stench of artificiality, instead the halls were filled with flowers and soft armchairs, taken from storage that she had discovered in some of the unused rooms at the rear of the castle. 

Gradually, through the months that passed, they came to know each other as the best of friends, the shared space no longer feeling cursed to be the graveyard of every happy memory he had, but the beginning of a new chapter in life. He tried to teach her to dance, laughing as she could never quite get it right, and she tried to teach him how to paint, though he refused to do so with the spontaneity to construct abstraction. 

Some days they simply spent reading, her consuming thick and dusty tomes about the machines which had powered the movement of the castle; him concerned with science wherever it appeared in their lives. The seasons had changed, melting into late spring, nearly a year after they had first met, and though they spent most of their time in the castle, they occasionally left to travel for brief periods. 

Her final and most frustrating project had been saved for last, attempting to fix the melted and twisted gears in the innermost machine rooms seemed insurmountable. Each gear was ten times larger than she was, fused and indistinguishable from the others, and prying them apart would be impossible with any tool they had on hand. Her strategy was haphazard and messy, but effective, as she superheated her arms and shoved them through the seams of the mess. 

It was slow and exhausting progress, and by the end of the day she was always scorched and panting, another section deconstructed. Each gear she slowly worked away had to be remade, and thus there was need for a forge. Adrian had taken it upon himself to convert one of the unused laboratory spaces for such use. After a while, she would become bored of the tedium of using her power and would divert her attentions for the day. 

On one such day, she had deigned to work on the roof, pulling up different tiles which had been leaking in the rain a week before, when Trevor and Sypha returned.


End file.
